


The Modern Orestes

by revolutions_revelations



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, M/M, Minor Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Minor Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Multi, basically a dancer!au, no one knows how to handle feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-11 04:51:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7877275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolutions_revelations/pseuds/revolutions_revelations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras needs help with the new contemporary ballet he's starring in and by some sort of twisted fate, Grantaire enters the scene. </p><p>Or the one where Enjolras is the prima ballerina and Grantaire is the hip-hop dancer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You’re too tense, Enjolras. Relax your movements,” Lamarque instructs. He demonstrates the move again and points out all the little details that Enjolras missed.

Enjolras repeats the relevé into en pointe as he attempts to regulate his breathing and relax despite his muscles screaming in pain. This is, of course, all his fault. He had been the one to ask Lamarque to teach him more en pointe technique. It was supposed be a statement to the sexism in the ballet industry and now his calves are paying for it.

“You’re standing like a statue,” Lamarque sighs. “If you want to do this production, you have to add fluidity to your precision. It’s bursts of energy, but everything should still feel connected. Think modern.”

“I skipped contemporary,” Enjolras admits as he lets himself fall out of his pose. “That probably wasn’t a smart choice.” 

Lamarque is silent for a moment before he smiles and Enjolras immediately knows he’s not going to like what happens next. “I guess doing it later is better than never. I’ll let them know you’ll be joining class starting tomorrow. Studio C. It’s a 10 am class,” he says. “Until then, we’re done for today.” 

Enjolras throws his belongings in his bag as Lamarque leaves the room. There really is never any room for argument when it comes to his favorite teacher.

 

“Contemporary?” Courfeyrac sputters. Enjolras shushes him as the customers scattered around the Musain give them funny looks.

“I told him I skipped it,” Enjolras grumbles. He’s half regretting telling Courfeyrac about his woes before any of their other friends arrive at their usual meeting spot. Sympathy is not one of Courfeyrac’s strengths.

“You were kicked out.”

“I know.”

“Who were you fighting again?” Courfeyrac asks, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. “I recall you ranting about a ‘dark-haired angel from hell who has no morals.’”

“You called?” Feuilly jokes and sets fresh cups of coffee on their table.

“Feuilly, you literally lose profit because you buy expensive cups made of recycled organic material,” Enjolras says. “You have morals.”

Feuilly laughs and ruffles Enjolras’ blonde curls. “Sarcasm, E. Sarcasm.” 

“Did Enjolras miss a joke again?” Combeferre drops into an empty chair next to Courfeyrac.

“Yes. He also has to take a contemporary dance class.” Courfeyrac grins. “The 10 am class tomorrow.” 

To his credit, Combeferre tries a little harder to hold back a smile, but Enjolras can still see the way his lips twitch upward. The traitor. “The 10 am class?” Combeferre asks, unable to keep his amusement from sneaking through.

“Yes, my dear Combeferre. The 10 am Thursday class.” Courfeyrac slings an arm around him as Feuilly chokes back laughter.

“Am I missing another joke?” Enjolras looks at his three friends, hopelessly lost.

His question is ignored as Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta walk through the door of the Musain and join their table. 

Courfeyrac turns to Musichetta, the shit-eating grin still intact, and asks, “Musi, you’re teaching tomorrow’s 10 am class, right?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, why?” 

“Who else is there? Just out of curiosity.” Courfeyrac gives his best attempt at sounding innocent and fails totally.

“It’s me, Bossuet, Eponine, Grantaire, and a bunch of freshman we volunteered to teach,” Musichetta answers while glaring skeptically at Courfeyrac. “Why?”

Enjolras can’t help it when his mouth falls open. Courfeyrac starts laughing and Combeferre can no longer hold back a smile. Feuilly snorts and leaves to get coffee for everyone else.

“Does someone mind explaining to me what just happened?” Joly asks.

With Courfeyrac laughing and Enjolras suffering a minor panic attack, Combeferre is the only one fit to answer. “Enjolras has been ordered to take some contemporary sessions to prepare for the student production. Specifically the 10 am class on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Lamarque’s orders.” 

Musichetta and Bahorel groan as Joly joins in on the laughter.

“They’re going to fight like cats again,” Musichetta complains. “It’s going to ruin my morning routine.”

Joly chokes back laughter long enough to sputter: “Didn’t Enjolras get kicked out of class freshman year because he wouldn’t shut up about how sexist the lyrics to the warm-up songs were?”

“And then Grantaire told him that there was no point complaining because the industry didn’t care what some Adonis from the ballet world thought,” Courfeyrac recalled with a dramatic sigh. “And our lovely E decided to tell him that Adonis was an inaccurate description and that Antinous was a more fitting deity to compare himself to, so Grantaire just started spouting different Greek figures that start with A. God, that poor instructor.”

“Is that why he calls you Apollo now?” Joly asks as Enjolras buries his head in his hands.

Enjolras clearly remembers that exchange. He was a freshman, trying to diversify his abilities by taking a class in something other than ballet. It had seemed like a good idea, until a rumpled, black-haired mess ran into class late and plopped himself down next to Enjolras.

 

_  
“Why are you staring? Haven’t you ever seen a person walk in late?” The boy had asked after he caught Enjolras’ unwavering gaze._

_Truthfully, Enjolras was staring because, despite the mess, the boy was kind of beautiful. It wasn’t the kind of beautiful Enjolras knew that most people desired [thanks to unfair media representation], the kind of beautiful he knew himself to be. The boy’s curls weren’t neat and golden and his face wasn’t delicate and symmetrical. Yet, it was refreshing to see the way his curls had a life of their own, framing a smooth tan face. His eyes were small and black, but there was a sharpness to the way they observed the world. But, of course, Enjolras couldn’t admit that he was staring because his emotions were being compromised._

_“It’s the first day of class. Everyone showed up half an hour early,” Enjolras had said instead, trying to keep his voice nonchalant._

_“Shit happens,” the boy replied. “I’m Grantaire, by the way. Does the blue-eyed angel have a name?”_

_Enjolras felt himself blush and silently curse his fair skin for betraying him. Usually, he hated it when strangers complimented him like that. He hated the way people stared as if he were nothing more than a pretty statue to admire. But Grantaire wasn’t looking at him like that. His dark eyes were searching him in a way that was just so_ different _._

_“It’s Enjolras.”_

_“Bless you.”_

_Enjolras narrowed his eyes at him. “Do you take anything seriously?”_

_Grantaire laughed. Enjolras silently noted the way he threw his head back and laughed with his full body. It was a nice laugh._

_Then warm-ups started and it all went to hell. Enjolras found himself kicked out into the hallway before class even properly started. Instead of leaving, he stubbornly waited there until the end of class. Grantaire, predictably, was one of the last students out the door, forcing Enjolras to endure an endless stream of funny looks. When he saw Enjolras waiting there, he laughed that beautiful, full-bodied laugh._

_“Apollo, did you wait here just so we could continue our debate?” Grantaire asked gleefully._

_“No, I have more important things to do. I wanted to give you this.” Enjolras reached into his bag to retrieve a small flyer and handed it to Grantaire. “I’m starting a club. You should come listen and maybe I can change your mind.”_

_Grantaire didn’t laugh at the flyer, which was a good sign. When Enjolras gathered his friends around for their first meeting in the back of the Musain, he spotted a mess of black curls sitting in the back of the room and he couldn’t help but smile a little.  
_

 

“I don’t even know why he shows up to meetings. It’s not like he cares about anything we discuss. All he ever does is fight me,” Enjolras mumbles through his fingers. “He’s going to be worse in the mornings, isn’t he?”

“He likes to teach without a shirt on,” Musichetta deadpans. 

The group of friends burst into laughter when Enjolras looks up, horrified.

 

Grantaire is stretching when he catches a familiar mop of blonde curls walk through the door. Surprise flits across his face, but he quickly composes himself and silently curses whatever higher power decided that this is how he’d pay for all that bad karma.

“We are being graced by a god today, class!” Grantaire’s lips start moving without his consent. It’s a problem he needs to work on. “Everyone say hi to Apollo!”

The freshman class pause their stretches to look at Enjolras. Grantaire sees a group of girls giggle and start whispering. He honestly can’t blame them. Enjolras’ face is usually enough to make anyone blush, but he’s arrived to class in his damn ballet gear. The tight tank top is one thing, but the tights really are unnecessary.

“You’re making the girls flustered, Apollo. Don’t you have clothes that are less form-fitting?” Grantaire teases. Inside, he’s desperately willing his eyes to not wander, but Enjolras in ballet tights is a tempting sight. 

Enjolras doesn’t meet his gaze. “I have class with Lamarque right after this. Don't you own shirts?”

“One, teaching without a shirt lets them see my movements more clearly. Two, you're going to kill yourself if you rehearse too much.” Grantaire tries to pass it off as a casual comment, hiding any actual concern. “Why are you even in my class?”

Enjolras ignores him and starts contorting his body as he begins a precise routine of stretches. His muscles flex and ripple, lithe and graceful doing even something as simple as stretching. Enjolras, in Grantaire’s humble opinion, is the result of some Creator’s century of hard work, carving the perfect man out of marble. He’s willowy and would look almost breakable if not for the layers of thin muscle that years of ballet has gifted him. His golden curls and delicate features are feminine, delicate, and beautiful enough to make any artist want to stop everything so that they may capture the perfection. Most of the girls stop whispering and gape as Enjolras continues through his routine. A few boys openly stare. Grantaire hears one of them mumble, “I'm so gay,” under his breathe. A few more have a crisis at 9:50 in the morning. Enjolras, of course, is unaware of the effect he’s having on the entire studio.

“This is going to be a problem, isn't it?” Eponine’s voice startles Grantaire out of his silent prayer for a quick death.

“He's going to distract the freshman. These poor kids…”

“I'm not worried about them,” Eponine cuts him off. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I'm fine,” Grantaire answers quickly. His insides are twisting and churning, but he tries to keep his voice steady. “We're adults. We can handle ourselves.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“Eps, I'm over it,” Grantaire says firmly.

“You still go to his meetings,” she points out.

“The content is riveting.”

Eponine glares at him, refusing to let the subject go. Musichetta and Bossuet are staring from across the room and Grantaire is suddenly feeling like he wants to cover up. “I’m fine, Eponine. Can we please just get this class over with?” Grantaire moves past her and reaches for the t-shirt in his bag and begins the session.

 

Enjolras doesn’t understand why he’s relieved when Grantaire pulls his shirt over his head, but he is. He makes himself an excuse about public decency and leaves it at that. Aside from the first moments of walking in, Enjolras is grateful that Grantaire has left him alone. It may be because Eponine is glaring daggers at Grantaire, leaving little attention to offer elsewhere, but still, it’s better than the alternative. The class continues their own stretches until loud music starts blasting out of the room’s speaker once 10:00 arrives. Enjolras winces as the bass rattles his eardrums.

“Alright, start with body rolls. Feel every part of you connect,” Bossuet instructs from the front of the room as the other instructors begin dividing up the class and correcting students.

Grantaire walks toward Enjolras’ side of the room and Enjolras feels his stomach tie itself into knots.

“Relax, Apollo. I’m not here to antagonize you. No need to look constipated.” Grantaire rolls his eyes. “I actually take this job seriously.”

“That’s possible?” Enjolras jabs back mindlessly.

Grantaire doesn’t grace him with an answer. He silently watches Enjolras execute a few body rolls, timed perfectly with the beat of the music. “You need to loosen up,” he ends up saying.

“Funny, that’s what landed me in this class.” Enjolras grits his teeth as he tries a few more times.

Grantaire runs his fingers through his dark curls, tugging at the end of the strand that always sticks up by his ears. Enjolras notices that he always does that when he’s thinking, which is a rare occurrence, but not nonexistent. “I think you’re trying too hard to follow the beat. Feel the bass, but let yourself be late and just let your muscles do the rest. Music is fluid, it’s not a damn metronome,” Grantaire instructs.

Enjolras follows his instructions, trying to get rid of years of ballet practice that told him otherwise. He closes his eyes and lets the bass course through him, overwhelming any thoughts of precision as he goes again. When he opens his eyes, he’s greeted with a nod from Grantaire.

“That was… good,” Grantaire says, his face twists as if it hurts him to compliment Enjolras. “Much better.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras grumbles. It _feels_ better too, Enjolras allows himself to admit. Ballet is all about grace, with precision. Even the roles with more freedom require a certain level of discipline. It's been so long since he's allowed himself to leave those constraints behind.

Grantaire clears his throat and tugs on the curl again. “Um, I'm going to see if anyone else needs help,” he mumbles. Enjolras frowns as he watches Grantaire ignore a group of students and go straight to Eponine. It isn't until later that he realizes that this is the longest they've spent together without erupting at each other. 

 

“So?” Courfeyrac looks expectantly at Enjolras as he plops onto their couch.

“So what?” Enjolras doesn’t look up from his book.

“How was class?” Courfeyrac doesn’t give up. He grabs the book from Enjolras’ hands.

“Courf,” Enjolras sighs, “I need to study my character. Our show is in a month.”

“You’ve read every book about Orestes already. As your Pylades, I’m telling you to stop,” Courfeyrac says. “How was class?”

“Lamarque was great. My pointe is getting better.”

“That wasn’t my question. How was _The Class_ ,” Courfeyrac persists. “E, I’ve had such a difficult day. Please humor me.” 

“You had one rehearsal today and you spent the rest of it bothering Combeferre,” Enjolras points out.

Courfeyrac waves Enjolras’ argument away. “Bothering Combeferre is hard work. It takes so much to get him worked up. Did Grantaire go shirtless?”

“Briefly.” 

Courfeyrac sits up a little straighter. “Were his tattoos as nice as you imagined? His tanned skin marked up with colorful swirls that you could chase with your fingers all day long.”

Enjolras glares at his best friend. “I didn’t imagine anything,” he insists. 

“Mhm. Were they nice though?” Courfeyrac grins, clearly having more fun than should be allowed. “I’ve heard that they really compliment his abs.”

“They were fine. He was fine. The class was fine. Can I please have my book back now?” Enjolras reaches across Courfeyrac for the transcription of Lucian’s _Erotes_. “It took me forever to find a decent translation.”

“No.” Courfeyrac tucks the worn book under the couch and drags Enjolras to the door of their shared apartment. “We’re going to meet Jehan and Combeferre for dinner. God, I bet you didn’t even have lunch.”

Enjolras mumbles something about not having time for lunch and lets himself be led to the Corinthe. 

 

The Corinthe is Grantaire’s preferred cafe, not that Enjolras actively remembers these things. Enjolras himself prefers the Musain. It’s quieter in the Musain and there aren’t any obnoxious windows that showcase the customers to strangers on the street. Feuilly runs the Musain, so the coffee beans are organic, from ethical sources, and, in Enjolras’ opinion, taste superior. There’s even a small backroom. It’s supposed to be for employees, but seeing as Feuilly only has one other person working with him, it’s been kindly donated to weekly meetings for Enjolras’ club.  
Enjolras could see the Corinthe’s appeal though. The cafe/restaurant/bar certainly has more dining [and drinking] options and the small stage always has a music student or two keeping the audience entertained. Grantaire’s favorite spot is in the corner of the bar— not that Enjolras notices that every time he steps in the place.

Courfeyrac leads him to a table not far from where Grantaire is nursing a glass of something definitely alcoholic. Enjolras barely has time to acknowledge him before Jehan is tugging him into a seat.

“Did you get your hands on that Lucian translation I told you about?” Jehan says as a means of greeting him. “Of course the original Greek is the best, but I suppose it’s too late to learn a language for your production.”

Enjolras cracks a smile. Asking Jehan for help with understanding Orestes and Pylades is like being sucked into a black hole of endless information. “Yeah, I finally got my hands on a copy.” 

“Is it the copy with the green cover?” Jehan asks excitedly. “That one is my favorite. The paper material they used for that edition is _heavenly_.”

“Jehan, has anyone ever told you that it’s a bit weird to like touching books?” Courfeyrac jokes.

“I think it’s weird that you think we can’t see you trying to play footsie with poor Combeferre under the table,” Jehan observes, his usual softness taking on an edge of something dangerous.

Courfeyrac feigns offense with a dramatic gasp. “I am doing no such thing! He’s the one who started it.”

Jehan stares skeptically at Courfeyrac before he turns his gaze to Combeferre who just blushes and shrugs. “God, I’m scarred for life,” Jehan groans.

Enjolras watches his friends banter back in forth, choosing to not take part. As time goes on, more and more of their friends arrive at the Corinthe. Bossuet and Musichetta arrive with a protesting Joly in tow. [“I have _exams_ to study for. I’m not a dancer.”] There’s a shout and loud greetings as Bahorel arrives and gets the drinking started. Feuilly arrives after he closes the Musain for the day and brings his leftover pastries to a delighted, and slightly tipsy, Courfeyrac. Cossette arrives in time to stop Courfeyrac from challenging Bahorel to a drinking competition. The human version of a puppy follows her around as she introduces him to the group as, “my new friend, Marius.”

Grantaire and Eponine join the group at some point. Enjolras watches as Grantaire listens to one of Bahorel’s lewd jokes, his dark curls bouncing as his whole body shakes with laughter. There’s a tinge of pink coloring Grantaire’s cheeks and a bright twinkle in his dark eyes. He turns and catches Enjolras staring. Maybe it’s the alcohol and maybe it’s not, but Enjolras doesn’t turn away. Grantaire gifts him a rare smile before shaking his head and announcing that he’s done for the night. 

“So soon Grantaire?” Courfeyrac asks from his seat on Combeferre’s lap.

Grantaire shrugs, his eyes flitting over to Enjolras for the briefest of moments. “My liver deserves a break once in awhile.”

Combeferre stands up, knocking Courfeyrac off of him. “We should get home too,” he says. 

“Mine or yours?” Courfeyrac asks Combeferre, much to the dismay of the rest of the group. 

Enjolras groans. “We live in the same damn apartment. Just try to keep it down, okay? I have class tomorrow morning.”

“Ah yes!” Courfeyrac gives a drunken shout of delight. “Grantaire, how was class this morning?”

Grantaire chooses to ignore the questions and brushes off the snickers from around the room. “Good night, Courf.” With that, he walks out of the Corinthe and into the spring night. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras follow him out a few moments later, but by then, Grantaire is nowhere in sight.

“How _did_ it go?” Combeferre asks. His voice is soothing and cuts through Enjolras’ anxious thoughts of tomorrow’s class. Courfeyrac opens his mouth, probably ready with few lines of wit, but Combeferre glares at him and he immediately snaps his mouth shut.

“We didn’t fight,” Enjolras offers. “It was fine.” Enjolras doesn’t mention how Lamarque praised him for such quick improvement or how it was _Grantaire_ who was to thank for it. He doesn’t mention how Grantaire always helped him first before moving on to the other kids and how smart Grantaire can be when he isn’t drinking or fucking around. 

Combeferre gives Enjolras a long look and nods. “Don’t fuck it up, Enjolras,” he says softly. “I know it went better than fine.”

Enjolras wants to argue. He’s slightly insulted that Combeferre thinks he’s the one that will mess it up. Then again, “There’s nothing to mess up.”


	2. Chapter 2

Enjolras is tired, admittedly, by the time rehearsals for their annual ballet production come around. 

“Don’t exert too much energy, just go through the paces tonight,” Lamarque instructs when he catches Enjolras wincing during stretches.

Even though Lamarque runs the ballet division in the college, it was Enjolras’ decision for them to do a retelling of the story of Orestes and Pylades. The music and dances are modern, the parts are diverse, and it brings a gay couple to the forefront in a very conservative world. The only issue is that the part of Orestes is insanely difficult, so in a way, Enjolras is to blame for his own pains.

“How does one murder one’s mother half-heartedly,” Courfeyrac jokes once Lamarque is out of earshot. Enjolras groans at the reminder of having to rehearse that section of the ballet. He can barely breathe by the end of the scene.

“Feel free to kiss me whole-heartedly, though. I’d like to be the only person in this college to make out with Apollo and have lived to tell the tale,” Courfeyrac continues.

“Don’t call me that.” Enjolras rolls his eyes at his best friend. He had considered cutting the kiss, but he didn’t want to leave room for anyone to claim that Orestes and Pylades are anything less than in love. If he has to kiss his best friend for the cause, so be it.

“Only I’m allowed to call him that. Right, Apollo?” Enjolras whips his head around to see Grantaire leaning lazily on a half-painted section of scenery. There’s green paint dripping everywhere, but Grantaire doesn’t seem to care. He’s still dressed in the loose t-shirt and sweatpants from the morning class that have so many stains already, any new ones will go unnoticed.

“What are you doing here?” Enjolras asks. He winces when he hears his voice sound much harsher than what he meant.

“I came to check up on my favorite student, of course,” Grantaire says. He pretends that he doesn’t see Enjolras roll his eyes. “And I promised Bahorel I would help with the sets.” 

“You can paint?” Enjolras looks at the way Grantaire is haphazardly twirling a brush between his fingers and tries to picture Grantaire sitting still in front of an easel.

Grantaire stops twirling his brush and tucks it behind his ear. “I’m also majoring in studio art. So yes, I dabble.” 

Enjolras frowns. “I didn’t know that.” 

“You never asked,” Grantaire says, shrugging. And it’s true. Enjolras never really bothered to talk to Grantaire about things outside of whatever topic they happened to be discussing at meetings in the Musain. Enjolras wants to say something, to apologize for not caring enough, but the words don’t want to come out. 

“I think you should get going, Lamarque is waving,” Grantaire says, saving Enjolras from his sudden speechlessness. “I’ll just paint this tree and watch. No pressure.”

Enjolras forgets that Grantaire is watching by the time rehearsal is in full swing. He loses himself in the music and his steps, loving every moment of it. Even with only 50% effort, Enjolras is drenched in sweat by the time they finish with the first scene. He peels off his soaked shirt and wonders how he’s going to dance with full costume on.

“Time to kill your mother!” Courfeyrac sings excitedly as they set up for the second scene.

Enjolras shakes his head. “You’re enjoying this too much. Do you need to talk to someone about this?”

“Nah, I’m excited because it’s only one more scene until I get to kiss you,” Courfeyrac says. He bounces on his feet like a hyperactive child. “I get to kiss Apollo!”

“Does Combeferre know you’re this excited to kiss someone else?”

“He’s excited for me, okay?” Courfeyrac huffs. “He’s a very understanding boyfriend.”

Enjolras blocks out the rest of Courfeyrac’s rambling and searches around the boxes backstage for his scene two prop. The productions is still a month away, so naturally it looks like a mini hurricane has hit the backstage area. Boxes of props, half finished scenery, and costume racks are strewn around in a disorganized mess. The theater would have it no other way.

“Has anyone seen my knife?” Enjolras shouts above the hustle of ballerinas, musicians, and stage crew.

“Has anyone seen Apollo’s shirt?” another voice shouts. 

Enjolras knows who it is before he even turns around. “Seriously?” He frowns at Grantaire, who happens to be twirling the knife around like a baton.

“Nice tat, Apollo. Didn’t know you had ink,” Grantaire grins, his eyes fixed on the elegant french permanently inscribed on Enjolras’ lower rib. “ _Liberté, égalité, fraternité._ Predictable.”

“I was 18 and obsessed with Robespierre. Sue me,” Enjolras says, exasperated. “Can I have my knife please?”

“You’re missing part of the quote, you know,” Grantaire continues. The knife is still twirling around in hypnotic circles. “It’s ‘ _Liberté, égalité, fraternité, ou la mort._ ’”

Enjolras sighs, but is quietly impressed that Grantaire knows the missing phrase. “I know. I also know that they decided to drop ‘ _ou la mort_ ’ because it was too strongly associated with the Reign of Terror. Robespierre, despite all his virtues, was a little too bloodthirsty in the end.”

“You know, some people choose normal celebrities to have a sexual awakening over. Only you would choose a dead 19th century philosopher,” Grantaire says. There’s a fondness in his dark brown eyes that is rarely there and he [finally] hands the knife to Enjolras. “You were good, by the way. I don’t know why Lamarque would torture you with extra lessons with me.”

“It’s only good because of you.” It’s probably the first compliment he’s ever given to Grantaire, but every word is true. Enjolras has never been the type to say things he doesn’t mean.

Grantaire scoffs. “You’ve only been in my class twice, Apollo.” 

Enjolras frowns. He’s always known Grantaire to be a sceptic, but it upsets him that Grantaire won’t take credit for his work. “Honestly, Grantaire, you’re a good teacher. Why can’t you just accept my compliment?”

Grantaire’s face twists into an unreadable expression. If Enjolras didn’t know Grantaire better, he would think that Grantaire is blushing, but, of course, Grantaire never blushes. “I know bull when I hear it, but thanks Apollo.”

Enjolras wants to argue, to pull out all the evidence that Grantaire can be _good_ , that he deserves credit for being more than another drunk college boy. Grantaire is a caring teacher, a talented dancer, and probably a great artist. His arguments at the Musain are always grounded, however infuriating they are, and he makes Enjolras’ stances stronger. And maybe Enjolras didn’t realize this until recently, but that doesn’t make the facts less true; Grantaire is good and valuable. He wants to argue, but he doesn’t. 

“R, stop distracting my Orestes. He’s got two more acts to go and I have a music history test to study for.” Combeferre appears out of nowhere with impeccable timing. He starts shouting directions and scribbles in his director’s book as he pushes Enjolras onstage and away from Grantaire. Sometimes, Enjolras thinks Combeferre is the one that’s a god because there’s no way someone is this good. “Don’t mess up,” Combeferre warns. He looks up from his notes and glares at Enjolras. Before he can figure out whether Combeferre is referring to the ballet or to Grantaire, the music starts up and rehearsal for Act 2 begins.

 

Eponine is the scariest person Grantaire has ever had the pleasure of meeting, maybe second only to Combeferre on a bad day. And it’s not the piercings, the half-shaved head, or the fact that she can deadlift double her bodyweight; it’s her uncanny ability to know everything a person is thinking and feeling. Grantaire personally believes her talents are wasted as a dancer because she’d be a hell of a government spy and Combeferre would be her perfect partner. They could easily take over the world.

Today is no exception. The second Grantaire has his ass on his favorite bar stool in the Corinthe, Eponine asks, “What did he say?”

“Can I at least have a few drinks first, Eps? Have a bit of sympathy,” Grantaire quips as he waves the bartender over. The bartender knows Grantaire well enough to recognize that today’s a bad day. 

Grantaire nods gratefully when a glass of his favorite cheap whiskey is set down in front of him, filled to the rim. 

“It’s my firm belief that it’s much less painful to pine from afar,” Eponine says as she watches Grantaire gulp down the whiskey.

“You’re probably right, as always,” Grantaire sighs and looks mournfully down at his empty glass. “Did you know he has a tattoo? And that he kisses Courf in the ballet?”

“He kisses Courf?” Eponine looks surprised. “I can’t believe that lucky bastard.”

Grantaire had felt a twinge of jealousy when he saw Enjolras lean in to kiss Courfeyrac. It was a full open-mouthed kiss too, not just a peck. Courfeyrac had whooped in celebration afterwards and Grantaire wanted to throttle him, but the kiss was the least of his problems. “God, why did he have to be _nice_?”

“He’s generally a nice person, R. That’s nothing new,” Eponine says.

Grantaire shakes his head. “But not to me. We argue and he hates me. That’s how it’s supposed to be. I can handle that. I’d rather know I have no chance than have whatever this is.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Eponine tries to tells him, but Grantaire is too busy buying drinks to listen.

 

It’s a good thing the next day is Saturday and Grantaire has no classes to teach and only a minor workshop to attend because he wakes up with a hangover that rivals all his previous hangovers combined.

“Fuck.” Grantaire winces at the sound of his own voice as he sits up. The world immediately starts spinning and he silently declares personal vengeance on sunlight. Despite his head screaming at him to go back to sleep, Grantaire’s many experiences tell him to get down to the nearest coffee shop for a highly caffeinated remedy. By a minor miracle, he manages to wriggle himself into a sweatshirt and stumble out the door. Outside, nature immediately begins assaulting his every senses. Grantaire quickly decides that the Corinthe is too far and too loud and slowly drags himself in the direction of the Musain.

The Musain is blissfully quiet when Grantaire arrives. A few students are scattered around the tables with laptops out and headphones in, but a majority of the student population are still asleep. Feuilly stops arranging his pastries in the display case when he sees his friend trip through the door. Before Grantaire can reach the counter, Feuilly begins pulling ingredients from the fridge. It’s a ritual they’ve gotten used to over the years.

“Feuilly, please save me,” Grantaire moans as he leans heavily on the counter.

“Go find a couch. I’ll bring it to you,” Feuilly says, waving Grantaire away from the counter.

Grantaire manages to babble some sort of thank you before settling on the largest couch he can find. He’s burning his mouth on one of Feuilly’s magical organic hangover concoctions when the couch cushion shifts with the weight of someone joining him.

“What happened to letting your liver rest?”

Grantaire groans. “Apollo, please, my head hurts too much to deal with Greek deities right now.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and settles into the couch with a cup of coffee in hand. “Is this why you ran away right after rehearsal ended? To drink yourself into oblivion?”

“What’s it matter to you?” Grantaire mumbles. He glares down at Feuilly’s recyclable cup and curses silently. The Corinthe really isn’t that far of a walk.

Enjolras shrugs. “I was wondering what you thought of the last two scenes, but you were gone.”

“Doesn’t Lamarque give you feedback?”

“Of course, but the ending is more modern than anything he’s directed and I thought you’d be a good person to go to,” Enjolras says. “I mean, logically you’d have good advice.”

Grantaire squints at him, half in disbelief and half because Enjolras’ hair really is too bright. Enjolras stares back, his deep blue eyes wide with earnest. It completely throws Grantaire off, who’s so used to seeing those eyes look at him with cold fierceness as they argue. Apollo really is a fitting name for a man who is as fiery as the sun, but as cold and distant as the gods. Warmth was never a part of the picture.

Enjolras opens his mouth to say something else, but snaps it shut and frowns. He glares at the cup of Feuilly’s famous hangover cure and just like that, the warmth is gone. “Logically you’d have good advice, but I doubt you remember enough from last night to be useful. Seriously, why do you insist on drinking yourself to death?”

Grantaire smiles weakly. This is more like the Enjolras he knows. “I like to be reminded of my own mortality.”

Enjolras huffs, unamused. “Will you be able to make it to the workshop later, or should I tell them you’re unable?”

Grantaire sits up a little straighter and his eyes widen in surprise despite his attempts to seem unmoved. “You signed up for the workshop?” His voice comes out higher than he’d like, but at least it doesn’t crack.

“Well, yes. I assumed spending more time with your department would help.” He looks at Grantaire’s disheveled state with that famous look of disappointed he always has saved especially for Grantaire. “I guess I will have to manage without your help.”

“I never said I wasn’t going to the workshop,” Grantaire argued. He still feels horrible, but out of pure spite and self-destructiveness, he’s determined to show up.

“It’s in half an hour and you’re not even dressed for it,” Enjolras points out. He gestures to Grantaire’s old sweatshirt and pajama pants.

Grantaire just shrugs and sets down his empty cup. “I can dance without a shirt and these pants are good enough.”

“We should get going then.” Enjolras stands up and slings his bag over his shoulders. He offers Grantaire a hand up, but out of some self-preservation, Grantaire doesn’t take it.

 

Their walk to the studio is silent for the most part. It’s a comfortable silence despite the fact that Grantaire is internally freaking out. He stumbles alongside Enjolras, unable to fathom why nobody warned him that his stupid obsession would be showing up to his classes and his workshops. Enjolras, as usual, is oblivious to Grantaire’s storm of emotions and manages to get both of them to the studio on time.

“You know, I’ve always found the _fraternité_ part to be problematic,” Grantaire says suddenly while they’re stretching before the workshop begins.

“What?” Enjolras is caught slightly off guard. 

Grantaire grins when he sees Enjolras’ blue eyes narrow in confusion. Seeing Enjolras confused is a rarity. “ _Liberté, égalité, fraternité_. Why fraternity? A binding brotherhood is kind of the opposite of what liberty calls for and the inherent sexism of that statement totally undermines equality,” he argues. “Robespierre just used that word because it rhymed.”

Enjolras’ confusion fades away and is replaced by annoyance. “ _Fraternité_ isn’t supposed to be taken literally. It’s the sentiment that liberty and equality cannot be attained alone. The brotherhood of man is necessary for those goals to be achieved.”

“It’s still sexist,” Grantaire retorts. “You should get a _Patria_ tattoo to offset it. I know a guy that owes me a favor; you could get it done for free.”

Enjolras glares at him, unamused. “Aren’t you supposed to be hungover? How are you still listening to the sound of your own voice?”

“Why, Apollo, didn’t you know that debating with you is the best hangover cure a man could have?”

“You’re ridiculous, Grantaire.” Enjolras can’t help but smile a little at Grantaire’s dramatics.

“So are you, Apollo.”

For once, Enjolras doesn’t argue.

At first, the workshop goes well. It’s mostly just a bunch of dancers teaching each other choreography to songs that Enjolras doesn’t approve of, but he doesn’t say so out loud for the sake of peace. The focus is on developing independent styles in hip-hop, but really that’s just an excuse for a bunch of people to take a break from serious classes and have a bit of fun.

As promised, Grantaire dances shirtless, inviting some wolf whistles from the other people in the room. Grantaire must know them well enough from his other classes, so he just happily flips off the sources of the whistles. A few minutes in, it becomes clear to Enjolras that Grantaire is the best dancer in the room. He’s quick to pick up on other people’s choreography and easily adds his own freestyle to it. He throws himself into the movements, but it’s not over-exaggerated. Enjolras just looks on and admires the smoothness of Grantaire’s every motion and the way he perfectly exhibits the style of every song.

“Apollo, you’re never going to learn if you just watch me the whole time,” Grantaire teases. He pulls Enjolras up from his seat in the corner of the room. “Come on, show us how ballet boys dance.”

One of the girls begins teaching Enjolras her choreography and he’s secretly proud that he learns it fairly quickly.

“Ready to put everything together?” she asks, after they’ve gone over it a few times.

Enjolras nods. He looks over at Grantaire, who is leaning against the wall, still shirtless. 

“Go on Apollo. Show me how good of a teacher I am,” Grantaire challenges. He smiles at the way Enjolras’ brow crinkles in determination when the music starts. 

Enjolras starts off a little stiff, but quickly loosens up as everyone cheers him on. Of course he still prefers ballet, but this, this isn’t bad either. He even finds the confidence to freestyle at the end of the choreographed section and somehow ends in a split.

“God, he’s hot _and_ flexible. R, how the hell did you manage to get him?” one of the guys shouts above the music. 

Enjolras blushes and pushes himself back to his feet. Grantaire just rolls his eyes and says, “I didn’t get him. I’m just the idiot alcoholic he puts up with.”

Enjolras starts to sputter a protest, but no one is listening anymore. The rest of the group is laughing and dancing ridiculously to the Nicki Minaj song that starts playing and pays no attention to an indignant Enjolras. Grantaire doesn’t join the group and smiles grimly when Enjolras stomps over to him.

“You’re not an idiot,” Enjolras says sharply.

“I am, however, an alcoholic,” Grantaire replies. “The idiot part is up for debate.”

“I don’t just put up with you, R.” 

Grantaire wants to close his eyes and die when he hears Enjolras use that nickname. Enjolras never uses his nickname and it’s doing things to his poor heart. Death, unfortunately, refuses to come and Grantaire feels his own temper flaring. It really is unfair for Enjolras to suddenly care about him after Grantaire has spent all this time getting used to being unwanted. “Apollo, you didn’t even know I took art until yesterday, you always yell at me to leave during meetings, and this is the first time we’ve hung out without being surrounded by your friends.”

All of Grantaire’s words are true and Enjolras hates himself for it. “I still value you. You’re my friend,” he insists.

“No, Combeferre and Courfeyrac are your friends. Jehan, Joly, Cossette, and Bossuet are your friends. You only put up with me because Lamarque made you take my class and that’s fine, Apollo. I get it.” Grantaire shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, hoping that it’s not obvious that he’s shaking.

Enjolras glares at him, positively furious now. “Lamarque didn’t make me sign up for this workshop.”

“Whatever. Look, I’m still hungover. I’m going home and sleeping for the rest of the day,” Grantaire sighs. His head really is throbbing again and Enjolras is too much for him to handle right now. He retrieves his sweatshirt and walks out of the studio, feeling much worse than he had in the morning.

Enjolras knows he should chase after Grantaire, but then someone is pulling him back to the group of dancers and he has no other choice but to join them. So he does, half-heartedly.

 

Combeferre is bent over a stack of papers when Enjolras walks into their apartment. It’s a familiar sight in a day filled with the unfamiliar. Enjolras doesn’t know how Combeferre handles being a student-director, musicology major, and a dance performance minor all while dating the storm of energy named Courfeyrac.

“Ferre?” Enjolras slumps into the sofa cushion. “Ferre, why doesn’t Grantaire think he’s my friend?”

Combeferre doesn’t even stop what he’s doing when he answers, “Because he’s not. You barely act like you even like him. You’re actually pretty terrible towards him.”

“I don’t like that he’s drunk at almost every meeting and I hate that he doesn’t believe in anything, but I don’t not like him. I want him to be my friend.” Enjolras suddenly feels tired. It’s not the good kind of tired he feels after a long day of dancing; it’s the kind of tired that saps at his strength and drains his emotions.

“Enjolras, when you yell at someone, they assume you don’t like them. When you don’t actively talk to someone, they assume they don’t matter to you. That’s usually how it works,” Combeferre explains slowly. It would be condescending, except it’s Combeferre that’s saying it. 

Enjolras sighs. He doesn’t mean to yell at Grantaire all the time; Grantaire just always presses the right buttons to provoke him. Slumped on the couch, Enjolras comes up with his new plan of action. “Ferre?”

“Mhm?”

“I think I messed up.”

“You think?”

“I’m going to fix it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to comment and leave kudos.  
> You can find me on tumblr at buckyandlokiruinedme.


	3. Chapter 3

Enjolras begins his new project the following morning. It’s Project Convince-Grantaire-That-He-Matters and Enjolras is determined to make it succeed. If Enjolras is to be honest, he doesn’t really have a written plan with carefully laid out steps like he usually would, but he has a few vague ideas on how to not be a terrible person.

“Your usual?” Feuilly asks when Enjolras walks into the Musain. It’s 9 am on a Sunday, but the coffeeshop is already bustling with activity. Feuilly’s breakfast tarts are good enough to make college students get out of bed before noon.

Enjolras nods and then frowns thoughtfully. “Feuilly, what’s Grantaire’s usual coffee order?”

Feuilly raises an eyebrow. “He likes it black, 3 shots of the darkest roast, and a teaspoon of sugar, but he usually gets something alcoholic at the Corinthe. Why?”

“Can I also have an order of that, please,” Enjolras says, wincing a little at the idea of 3 shots and no milk.

Feuilly looks like he wants to ask more questions, but decides it’s better if he doesn’t know. It doesn’t take him more than a few minutes to make the drinks and he promptly hands them to Enjolras.  
“Just be nice to him, okay?” Feuilly manages to say when Enjolras turns to leave.

Enjolras smiles. “That’s the plan.”

 

Grantaire really does go home and sleep after walking out of the workshop. He doesn’t wake up until his door starts rattling from some bastard’s insistent knocking. It takes a few seconds for him to trip over his art supplies and dirty laundry before he gets to the door.

“Who the fuck is here at 10 in the morning?” Grantaire shouts as he fumbles with the lock. He’s muttering more curses as the door swings open. His breath catches in his throat when he sees his nightmare standing awkwardly in front of him in a perfectly tailored red coat. Out of instinct, Grantaire slams the door shut and begins to panic.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras’ voice floats into the room.

“Um, just a moment.” He looks down at his boxers and quickly finds a pair of sweatpants to throw on. Then, there’s the problem of the dozens of paintings strewn across the small living room. Grantaire starts throwing the canvases filled with the likeliness of a certain blonde individual into his room. The small living room is still a mess by the time he’s done, but at least Enjolras won’t see his own face staring at him. It’s good enough for now.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras calls again. “Is everything okay?”

_No_ , Grantaire thinks, but he just sighs and opens the door. “Sorry, had to put some pants on. I was—,” Grantaire notices the two cups of coffee in Enjolras’ hands and feels his heart skip a beat before he can finish his sentence. “I was sleeping,” he finishes faintly.

“Oh.” Enjolras frowns. “Well, I brought coffee and I thought I should apologize about yesterday, but if I’m interrupting, um, something, I’ll just go.”

Grantaire grabs Enjolras’ arm before he can leave. “Wait, no. You can come in if you want.” He doesn’t know why it would be a good idea to have Enjolras actually be inside his apartment, but Enjolras bought _coffee_ for him and he’s curious as to why.

Enjolras stops, confused. “I don’t think she would want that. They usually don’t like it when that happens.”

“What?” Grantaire asks, equally confused.

“You were sleeping with someone. I don’t think she would want me to come in,” Enjolras says, slowly.

Grantaire stares at him for a few long seconds before breaking out into laughter. “Oh my god, no. I was actually just sleeping. Just me.” He opens the door a little wider and ushers Enjolras into his apartment. “Those were two awfully wrong assumptions you just made, Apollo,” Grantaire says. He leads Enjolras to his couch, the only place that isn’t totally covered in art supplies and clothes.

Enjolras hands him a cup of steaming coffee before sitting down. “I hope it’s okay that I assumed you’d need a little caffeine. I asked Feuilly for your usual.”

“Thanks.” Grantaire joins Enjolras on the couch, careful to keep a safe distance. It’s quiet for a few moments as Enjolras takes in his new surroundings. Grantaire really hopes Enjolras can't hear how loudly his heart is beating right now. 

“You must really do a lot of painting,” Enjolras observes. “I’d like to see one of your works one day.”

Grantaire wants to laugh. Enjolras has no clue that he’s really just asking to look at a bunch of portraits of himself, but he can’t know that, so Grantaire just nods politely. “Yeah, one day.”

There’s another silence that isn’t broken until Enjolras shifts awkwardly to face Grantaire. “What did you mean when you said I made two wrong assumptions?”

Grantaire laughs softly. “Well, you assumed I was sleeping with someone and then you assumed that if I were sleeping with someone, they would be female. Both are very wrong.”

Enjolras’ blue-eyes widen in surprise. “Oh, sorry. I don’t know why I assumed that. I just had no idea—” Enjolras trails off and shakes his head. “I’m sorry that I never bothered to know these things about you. I should know this kind of stuff about my friends.”

Grantaire almost chokes on his sip of coffee. “Why can’t you just let things go like a normal person?” he asks after he’s sure that his airways are clear. He feels his temper rising again. Having his feelings dragged back and forth this week has made him a little more irritable than usual.

Enjolras doesn’t answer right away like he usually does. He bites his perfect cupid’s-bow lips and looks to be deep in thought. “Grantaire,” he finally says, “I know I’ve been pretty horrible towards you and you don’t think I value you, but that’s all my fault.” He pauses. “Did you know I fought with Courfeyrac every day of middle school? He was this ball of energy and hormones and some of his ideas about the world were just _wrong_ , but I thought I could make him better. I liked him enough that I wanted to teach him and help him reach that potential that I saw in him. So we fought for the majority of three years and now he’s my best friend.”

Grantaire stares at Enjolras with those intelligent dark eyes before he sighs and looks away. “You can’t make people into something they’re not. Friends are friends even with all the flaws and bad habits. They’re not another cause for you to work on.”

“I know, I’m sorry that I forget that sometimes. It’s not fair of me to judge any of you,” Enjolras admits. “Really, I’m sorry, Grantaire. Let me prove to you that I'm sorry.”

Grantaire can feel Enjolras’ guilt radiating and it makes him want to shrivel up into a ball. Enjolras always has to be so goddamn earnest. Grantaire almost gives in and forgives him for three years of loneliness and pining, but he manages to find a little bit of strength in the three shots of espresso. “You really want to be my friend?”

“Yeah, I do, Grantaire,” Enjolras answers immediately.

Grantaire thinks for a moment. “For starters, I'm going to need this coffee every morning.” Grantaire drains the rest of his cup and grins.

Enjolras sighs. “You really never take anything seriously, do you?” 

“Take me or leave me, Apollo. Now get the hell out. I want to shower.” When Enjolras is gone, Grantaire finds himself under a spray of cold water and recounting the events of the hectic week. When he finally steps out of the shower, he can't tell if he's shaking from the temperature or from the idea of being Enjolras’ friend. Frustrated by his own emotions, Grantaire dresses quickly and starts painting a new piece. He finds himself using a lot of red and gold paint. Again.

 

Enjolras, unlike Grantaire, takes everything seriously. He shows up every morning, promptly at 9:00 am with a cup of coffee, usually with a fruit tart or two. Sometimes, Enjolras just drops off the coffee and leaves right away to get to rehearsals and classes. But, on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, Grantaire invites Enjolras into his increasingly cleaner living room and they talk until they have to leave for the 10 am Contemporary Basics class together. Sometimes Enjolras shows up for dinner and sometimes they grab a bite to eat with everyone else before they all head to rehearsals for the production. Grantaire insists on at least paying for dinner on rehearsal days despite Enjolras’ protests. 

Grantaire doesn’t understand how they manage to talk and not end up in a screaming argument every day. It’s not like they avoid inflammatory topics altogether. Enjolras discusses his ideas for future club meetings and Grantaire still points out all the flaws in his plans, but it remains civil and even begins to border on friendly. It all feels too good to be true. Every other night, Grantaire wakes up sweating, afraid that the past few days were just a dream, but then Enjolras comes knocking with coffee, assuring Grantaire this is all very real.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras as they’re sitting on the couch. It’s the day before his big production and he’s uncharacteristically anxious. “What are you planning on doing once we graduate?”

Graduation is slowly creeping up on them; the big day is only one month away. Between classes, finals, and Enjolras, Grantaire has stopped giving it any thought. He had wanted to go west and find a job with a company, preferably in LA. The plan had been to audition for any spot and then slowly make his way up to being a choreographer, but lately, Grantaire isn’t so sure anymore. He’s painting every night now, instead of drinking himself to sleep. The living room may be less of a mess, but his room is currently unlivable. He’s taken to sleeping on the couch. The smell of paint fumes is thick in his room and the mattress is covered with canvases that are drying. It started out as just this need to paint Enjolras and capture the smiles that are now directed toward Grantaire. If possible, Enjolras has become even more radiant in Grantaire’s eyes. He was beautiful when he was angry and cold, like a god. Now, he burns so brightly, sometimes it hurts for Grantaire to look at him. His smiles are gentle and his laugh rings like bells. So, Grantaire, as an artist, feels obliged to capture the radiance from every angle. Sometime into the second week, Grantaire finds himself painting other people too. There is one of Combeferre, leaning on Courfeyrac in one of the Musain’s couches. And one of Marius looking starstruck at the sight of Cosette in one of her flowing costumes. And another of Feuilly and his deft hands grinding coffee beans to perfection. Musichetta is the star of the most recent piece, with Joly and Bossuet on either side of her. Somehow, dancing has taken a backseat to his art.

“I don’t know what I’m doing yet,” Grantaire answers. “How about you?”

Enjolras looks down at his coffee, his blonde eyelashes softly brushing his cheeks. “I— I think I found something,” he says, “in New York City. A few ballet companies just called me back this week. The New York Ballet was one of them.”

Grantaire nearly spills his cup as he tugs Enjolras into a short embrace, an act that he wouldn’t have dreamed of doing just two weeks ago. Enjolras jumps a little at the sudden contact, but eventually leans in to the touch. Grantaire releases him and grins. “Congrats, Apollo. God, have you told anyone else?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I don't know, Grantaire. I'm usually so sure, but now I'm not.”

Grantaire is taken aback by Enjolras’ confession. It's the first time he is seeing this side of Enjolras. The man in front of him is insecure, unsure, and maybe a little bit daunted by life. 

“What aren't you sure about?” Grantaire asks.

“I auditioned for a few companies that are known to be more progressive, but none of them have gotten back to me yet. My choices are all very classical,” Enjolras makes a face at the word, “and I don't think I can handle _just_ classical anymore.”

Grantaire frowns at the idea of someone watching Enjolras dance and consciously rejecting him. Everything that Enjolras stands for, all that fire and passion, bleeds right into his dancing. He's incredibly light on his feet, but his presence is commanding. Every step has purpose and every movement tells a story. “Any company that doesn't offer you a job on the spot is run by idiots,” Grantaire says fiercely. He means every word of it.

Enjolras seems surprised at the forcefulness behind Grantaire’s statement. “Grantaire, I appreciate the sentiment, but not liking my dancing doesn't make someone an idiot.”

“Yes it does.” Grantaire refuses to say otherwise.

Enjolras gives him a funny look before getting up from the sofa. “Come on, we’re going to be late to class.”

He reaches out his hand to help Grantaire up. This time, Grantaire accepts it. 

 

Grantaire is still thinking about their conversation when Eponine stops him at the door at the end of class. Guilt settles in his stomach when he realizes how little he’s seen of his best friend outside of their shared classes. Enjolras is waiting at the end of the hall, used to their new routine of walking to the Musain together for a bite of lunch before Enjolras’ lesson with Lamarque. Grantaire waves at him to go on first before returning his focus to Eponine.

“Eps, I’m so sorry, I’ve been caught up with—” Grantaire trails off, gesturing helplessly in the direction where Enjolras was a moment ago.

“R,” Eponine rolls her eyes, “I have other friends, don’t worry about me. I’m actually glad that I’m not dragging your drunk ass home every night; that wasn’t exactly fun.”

“Sorry,” Grantaire offers weakly.

“I just want to make sure you know where you’re going with this,” says Eponine, ignoring his half-hearted apology. “Is seeing him every day really the best idea?”

Grantaire tugs at his hair as he contemplates the question. “I don’t know, Eps. I really like him.”

“I watched you pine after the same guy for all of college and drink your liver half to death. I know you really like him,” Eponine says. “But what if you guys fight again? What if he ignores you again? How about when we graduate in a _month_. I don’t want to be there to pick up the pieces.”

“I know,” Grantaire sighs. Eponine would've been right a month ago about this being a dangerous situation, but it's different. “I loved him for four years, totally worshipped him. But I think I actually _like_ him now.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Eponine huffs.

“I mean, he’s not just some beautiful god with golden ideals,” Grantaire pauses, “actually, yeah, he still is, but he’s also just a guy that likes his coffee with too much sugar and prefers blueberry tarts to strawberry tarts. He actually laughs at my jokes, Eps! And I still think he’s fighting a losing battle with his causes and he still tries to convince me otherwise, but it’s okay.” Grantaire feels his insides twist as he says, “I actually think he likes me too.”

Eponine nods and picks up her bag. “Just be careful, okay? We’re almost at the end.”

“I will,” Grantaire promises.

 

“Where’s R?” Courfeyrac asks when Enjolras drops into his usual couch in the Musain with a bowl of Feuilly’s soup. The couch seems unnecessarily big now that Grantaire isn’t right next to him.

“Eponine wanted to talk to him about something, I think,” Enjolras says, shrugging.

Courfeyrac smiles. “She’s probably telling him off for abandoning her for his new boyfriend.”

“Courf, we’re not dating,” Enjolras sighs. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

Courfeyrac begins ticking off points. “Well you’ve spent the past month dragging him to all your events. You bring him breakfast every morning. You guys have lunch and dinner together most days. You walk him home after rehearsals. You look at him like he’s the dark prince to your sun god. Honestly, as your Pylades, it makes me kind of jealous.” 

“I used to do all those things with you and Combeferre all the time. It’s not any different. And definitely do _not_ look at him like that,” Enjolras argues.

“We’re not _Grantaire_ , so obviously it’s different. And yes, you totally look at him like that.”

“Look at who like what?” 

Enjolras jumps at the sound of Grantaire’s voice. “Nothing,” he snaps immediately, glaring at Courfeyrac to keep his mouth shut for once.

“Wow, someone is prickly today,” Grantaire jokes as he joins Enjolras on the couch. “Did I do something? Or did Courf?”

“It’s nothing, sorry I snapped at you.” Enjolras looks down at his barely-touched lunch, no longer feeling hungry anymore. “Do you want the rest of this? Courfeyrac ruined my appetite.” He offers Grantaire the bowl.

“So it was Courf who made you all pissy.” Grantaire accepts the bowl of free soup and turns to Courfeyrac. “What did you do?”

“I was just telling Enjolras that he needs to get out more, you know?” Courfeyrac grins and ignores the daggers that Enjolras is shooting him. “It’s sad that I’m the only person on campus that has kissed him.”

“I can see why that would annoy him,” Grantaire says slowly. He glances at Enjolras, trying to gage the blonde’s reactions. Enjolras seems to be trying his hardest to avoid eye contact with anything living, which is never a good sign. Grantaire has always known Enjolras to be the type to stare at all his problems square in the eye with that famous icey stare.

“You need to get out more, too, R. I hear you have a thing for blondes.” Courfeyrac looks positively excited now; also, not a good sign.

Grantaire’s heartbeat picks up its pace when he realizes what Courfeyrac is implying. He looks at Enjolras again to find his new friend with an absolutely horrified expression on his face. Grantaire would be lying if he said the look on Enjolras’ face didn’t shatter his heart, but for the sake of salvaging some sort of relationship, Grantaire starts to laugh. “Courf, a lowlife like me would never dream of dating Apollo. I’ll stick to my peers, thank you very much.”

Enjolras’ expression twists into something Grantaire can’t quite recognize, but it’s better than the horror from before. There’s a silence as Courfeyrac’s eyes dart between the two of them, a frown replacing his mischievous grin.

“I have to run. Lessons start soon,” Enjolras finally says. He avoids looking at Grantaire as he mutters a quick goodbye and rushes out the door.

“What the hell, Courf?” Grantaire asks angrily, once the cafe door swings shut. He knows that his infatuation with Enjolras is no secret among most of Enjolras’ friend group, but no one has come close to exposing him until now.

Courfeyrac just rolls his eyes and sighs. “You both are fucking idiots.”

“How am I the idiot? He might know now!” Grantaire pales at the thought. He’s seen the way Enjolras reacts to unwanted advances at the Corinthe and it’s never nice. 

“Grantaire, are you blind? He likes you!” Courfeyrac exclaims.

“Yes, I just got him to start liking me and then you go and mess it up. God, he’s going to think I only did this to get in his pants.” Grantaire pulls at his hair. The horrified look on Enjolras’ face is going to be forever etched in his memory.

Courfeyrac throws his hands up. “I give up,” he announces. “I tried and you two are hopeless. I’m going to go find Combeferre and be with normal people for the rest of my day.”

Grantaire is left alone in the corner of the Musain, silently grieving for his losses. He can’t help but think of Eponine and how she was right about keeping his distance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and commenting! Please be patient with the next chapter, which will probably be the last. I just started college and it may take a while for me to finish it, but I definitely will try within the next two weeks. Hope you guys like this new chapter :)


	4. Chapter 4

Enjolras still shows up the next morning with coffee, ready to apologize for Courfeyrac’s antics. Much to his dismay, Grantaire doesn’t answer the door after at least five minutes of Enjolras’ insistent knocking. He tries the door and finds that it’s unlocked. Usually, Enjolras is not the type to break and enter, but this is a situation that calls for it.

“Grantaire, what the hell?” Enjolras opens the door to find Grantaire passed out on the hardwood floor, still wearing the clothes he had on yesterday. Paint is everywhere and Grantaire is using what looks to be a ripped up canvas as a pillow.

Grantaire barely stirs until Enjolras begins feeling around for a pulse. Warm fingers pressed against his neck finally wretches Grantaire out of unconsciousness.

“Oh thank god, you’re alive.” Enjolras sighs in relief when Grantaire cracks open his eyes.

“Why are you here?” Grantaire mumbles as he peels himself off the ground.

“I’m always here in the morning,” Enjolras replies. He helps Grantaire stand up and gently guides him to the couch. “Why are you sleeping on the floor? Why is there paint everywhere?”

Grantaire groans when he sees the mess of paint he’s left on the floor. “I tried to get a portfolio together. The whiskey didn’t help.”

Enjolras notices the empty bottle on the table and feels his stomach drop. “You started drinking again,” he says, unable to help himself from sounding disappointed. He immediately regrets his words when he sees Grantaire clench his jaw.

“Sorry that I don’t live up to your standards, Apollo,” Grantaire says bitterly. “Not all of us drink ambrosia.”

“I didn’t mean to sound—”

“Disappointed? Disgusted?” Grantaire finishes.

“Really, I’m sorry, Grantaire. Can we start this conversation over?” Enjolras hands him the cup of coffee and sits down cautiously next to him. “Drink. I’ll get you water.” He patiently waits for Grantaire to finish the coffee and hands him a cup of water before asking, “Why were you trying to pull a portfolio together?”

“I want to get away and find a job somewhere in California. A few graphic design companies were asking to see portfolios and I don’t have any substantial work,” Grantaire reluctantly answers.

Enjolras ignores Grantaire’s sour mood and plows on with the conversation. “Why California?” he asks.

Grantaire sighs. Enjolras is horrible at reading expressions, but Grantaire almost looks sad. “It felt like a good idea yesterday,” Grantaire says.

Grantaire looks down at his ruined clothing, splattered with drying paint and alcohol. He had decided that distance from Enjolras would be the solution to all his problems, so he spent the night furiously searching for artist jobs on the opposite coast of where Enjolras would probably be going. Nearly all the companies wanted to see some sort of portfolio, but somehow Grantaire doubted that multiple paintings and sketches of the same man would qualify as a portfolio. Then alcohol had gotten involved and not much productive painting was done after that.

“I’m really sorry about Courfeyrac yesterday. I didn’t mean to make things uncomfortable.” Enjolras’ voice jerks Grantaire away from his thoughts.

Grantaire’s heart, or what is left of it, melts a little when he meets Enjolras’ gaze. Those crystal blue eyes are wide and kind and earnest. Suddenly, all his ideas about running away to California seem like a distant memory. “It’s fine,” Grantaire manages to choke out. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it.”

“Will you still come to the production tonight?” Enjolras asks, clearly still testing the waters to see how Grantaire really feels.

“Do you want me to come?”

Enjolras frowns, clearly confused by Grantaire’s question. “Of course I want you to come! But I’m not going to force you to do something you don’t want to do.” He looks insulted that Grantaire would assume otherwise. 

“I want to go, Apollo. I want to see all my hard work actually come through for once,” Grantaire sighs.

Enjolras leans toward him and takes his hand. They’re sitting so that their legs are just barely touching and Enjolras’ hands are surprisingly gentle and soft. Grantaire could really just die right now and he’d kind of be okay with it. “Thank you,” Enjolras says softly. “For everything.”

“I’d do anything for you, Apollo.” Grantaire doesn’t look at Enjolras when he says it, but he can feel the weight of Enjolras’ gaze. It’s not like he’s just admitted a deep secret; everyone knows that he would go to the end of the world and back for Enjolras. Yet, having it just be known and saying it out loud are two completely different things. Enjolras eventually asks him a few more questions about California, but Grantaire is no longer sure that moving so far is the best idea. It isn’t until Enjolras leaves for his pre-show session that Grantaire thinks about the fact that he just held hands with the love of his life.

 

Grantaire is still feeling like he got hit by a car after a shower and another glass of water, but he decides that the paint fumes in his apartment are only going to make it worse. With Enjolras and most of their friends at last minute rehearsals, the Musain seems like a safe spot to relax for a while.

“Hi, R,” Feuilly greets when Grantaire walks in. “I’ve got some soup in the kitchen if you want.”

“That would be amazing.” Grantaire sits at the counter as Feuilly places a steaming bowl of soup in front of him. Grantaire slowly drinks the soup, savoring the warm broth as his thoughts begin to wander to his conversation with Courfeyrac the last time he was in the cafe. 

“R?” Feuilly waves a cleaning rag in front of Grantaire’s face. “You’re a thousand miles away right now. Are you alright?”

“Not sure,” Grantaire says truthfully.

“You know, sometimes Courfeyrac speaks before he thinks it through fully,” Feuilly says as he carefully sets his own bowl of soup down on the counter. “But that doesn’t mean what he says isn’t worth listening to.”

“I’m not upset at Courf,” Grantaire sighs.

“But you’re not listening to what he’s trying to say,” Feuilly counters.

“He didn’t say anything of significance.”

“I’ve never known Enjolras to buy anyone coffee before.”

Grantaire sets his spoon down, frustrated. “I don’t need this right now, Feuilly. He’s going to go off and be famous in New York. I’m going to go be a starving artist in the streets of Nowhere. He’s just showing some gratitude, okay? He’s not interested and I’m fine with it.”

“What would you do if he was interested?” Feuilly asks, not quite giving up yet.

Grantaire groans. “I would cry because it would mean the world is ending.”

“I do know a guy who lives in a bunker and is convinced that the world will be ending any day now. Maybe he’s onto something,” Feuilly muses.

The ridiculousness of Feuilly’s statement finally has Grantaire breaking into a smile. “You’re really something else, my friend.”

“Thanks, R. I try.”

 

Grantaire and Feuilly make their way to the performance together and manage to get seats in the balcony with the perfect view. Surprisingly, the theater is filling up quickly. Grantaire suspects that most of the people are here thanks to the dozens of flyers capturing Enjolras mid-pose. It’s hard for the average person to resist. 

Grantaire is quickly loses himself to the production when the curtains finally rise. He allows himself to feel proud that the stage is brought to life thanks to his and Bahorel’s artwork. The music soars from the orchestra, announcing the introduction of Orestes. Enjolras leaps out and immediately begins his routine, jumping and spinning with dizzying speed and ferocious strength. He channels his character so thoroughly, it becomes easy to forget that it’s Enjolras and not the spirit of a fallen Greek demigod brought back to life. 

The tone shifts after the last chord of the opening dance and Courfeyrac joins Enjolras on stage. His routine revolves around Enjolras’ every movement, like a satellite caught in orbit around a celestial body. Undoubtedly, Orestes is the center, his golden curls grabbing the attention of every particle of light. Pylades is the perfect shadow, always present, always in the background; his dark skin and even darker hair absorbing the light that Orestes reflects.

Grantaire has seen them dance a thousand times in rehearsals, but it’s different seeing them actually perform. He feels his heart jump to his throat when Orestes finally takes Pylades’ hand, acknowledging the presence of his satellite. Unconsciously, he flexes his own hand— the hand that Enjolras had held earlier that day. The memory of the warmth and softness plays in the back of his for the rest of the performance.

When the final note from the violins fade away, the audience jumps to its feet in a roar of applause. Even from the balcony, Grantaire can see Enjolras’ chest rising and falling rapidly. His lips are bright pink from the force of his final kiss with Courfeyrac and his hair looks windswept in the best way possible. There’s a noticeable crescendo in the applause when he steps forward for his bow and those beautiful pink lips break into a breath-taking grin. Grantaire is thankful to see that he isn’t the only one that swoons a little bit.

As the audience files out, Feuilly and Grantaire quickly make their way backstage to congratulate their friends. Grantaire heads for Enjolras’ dressing room, ignoring the looks he receives from the rest of the cast and crew. Enjolras’ door is open, but it seems that someone has already beat him to Enjolras. A tall man stands in front of Enjolras and he’s somehow just as beautiful as the star of the show. The man is every bit as lithe and graceful as Enjolras, with the same golden locks, only trimmed a little shorter. Enjolras is smiling and laughing in a way that Grantaire has never seen before. It feels like a dull knife to the gut when the man hands Enjolras a bouquet of flowers and gives him a long, hard hug. Before either man can notice him, Grantaire stumbles away from the scene.

 

Enjolras is in high spirits after the performance, yet he can’t help but feel a nagging sense of something being wrong. When it finally dawns on him, he immediately pushes through the crowd of friends and family to find Feuilly.

“Hey, you came with Grantaire, right?” he asks.

“Yeah, why?”

“Did he go home already?”

Feuilly frowns, confused. “What do you mean? I saw him go off and find you right after the ballet ended.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I didn’t see him.”

“That’s weird. I swear I saw him walk to your room,” Feuilly promises. “I don’t know where he could’ve gone.”

Enjolras feels a pit starting to form in his stomach. Something is definitely wrong. “I’m going to go back to his apartment. Maybe he went back there,” he tells Feuilly. “Tell everyone that I’ll be late to the party, okay?”

Feuilly sighs and nods, hoping that his friends’ issues get fixed soon enough so that the party isn’t totally ruined. He worked hard on the alcoholic cupcakes and there damn well better be enough people there to appreciate it.

 

The night is warm enough for Enjolras to run out without a jacket. He quickly walks onto the street and begins the trek back to Grantaire’s apartment. As he walks, his mind begins racing through possibilities for Grantaire’s absence. _Is he still uncomfortable about the Courfeyrac incident? Did he notice me almost say his name instead of Pylades? What did I do?_

He’s almost four blocks away from Grantaire’s apartment when catcalls break his train of thought.

“Look at the pretty fairy. Almost thought he was a girl for a moment,” a lewd shout comes from the entrance of a bar.

Enjolras turns to see a group of drunk men leering at him. He knows he should let it go, but it’s 2016 goddamnit and they need to learn some respect.

“What makes you think it’s okay to say those things?” Enjolras rages. “How are you still spewing blatant homophobia and sexism in this day and age?”

The men just laugh in his face. One of the bigger guys steps forward and grabs Enjolras’ shoulder in a vice grip. “Look at the fairy squirm and look at what he’s wearing.”

Enjolras looks down at himself and inwardly groans when he sees that he’s walked right out of the theater still dressed in his ballet tights and a top that barely offers any sort of coverage. He struggles to get himself away from the man. The punch to the face is a total accident on Enjolras’ part; it’s a result of flailing arms and close proximity, but the man immediately retaliates. Before he can comprehend the situation he’s gotten himself into, Enjolras is thrown down on the sidewalk with blood trickling down his face. On any given day, Enjolras could easily take any one of these men [ballet dancers are always much stronger than they look], but he’s totally outnumbered and frankly exhausted, so he offers very little resistance to the kicks he’s receiving.

“Hey!” There’s an angry cry from the door. Enjolras has his head cradled in his arms and can’t see who. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” The voice demands. From where Enjolras is curled up, the voice sounds like it belongs to a man he knows, and the man is completely livid. Before anyone can offer up an explanation, there’s the cracking sound of knuckles connecting to skin immediately followed by another voice demanding that the fighting stop with threats to call the police.

Enjolras finally manages to lift his head when the sound of fighting stops. His right eye is already beginning to swell shut from a particularly nasty punch, but his left eye definitely is able to send a few images to his brain for processing. It takes a second before he feels his body respond to what he’s seeing. Even after being in a fight, his heart seems to race even faster. For a moment, Enjolras considers the possibility of this being a hallucination as a result of a bad concussion.

“Grantaire?” The name comes out clumsy and slurred from Enjolras’ split lip.

“Jesus, what the hell are you doing here? Are you okay?” Grantaire bends down to bring himself eye-level with Enjolras. His hand reaches toward Enjolras’ face, hesitating hair-widths away before dropping his hand.

“Came to find you ‘cuz you left me. ‘M fine,” Enjolras mumbles.

Grantaire makes a small noise in his throat before he speaks again. “God, you’re bleeding a lot, Enj. Can you walk? My apartment is a few blocks away.”

Enjolras struggles to his feet, swaying slightly when he finally stands up.

“Is it okay if I carry you? It’ll be faster. We really need to bandage you up quickly.” Grantaire waits for Enjolras to give a nod of consent before gingerly lifting Enjolras into his arms.

Enjolras sighs and allows himself to rest his head against Grantaire. He’s feeling light-headed and nauseous, but the warmth of Grantaire’s body keeps the pain somewhat at bay. He can feel the rapid rise and fall of Grantaire’s chest and hear the steady thumping of his heart. It sounds like the beats of a metronome, offering a line of steadiness in a hectic situation.

“Apollo, I need you to stay awake. I’m calling Joly to come check on you, but you might have a concussion,” Grantaire’s voice floats into Enjolras’ head.

“I’m tired,” Enjolras mutters. A warm hand lightly slaps his face as his eyes start to droop shut. 

“Don’t you dare fall asleep right now, Enjolras,” Grantaire growls.

There’s the sound of a door swinging open and Enjolras feels himself being placed on the couch. The room still smells of paint, but the couch smells strongly of Grantaire.

“Okay, I have the bandages. I need you to sit up, okay? Enjolras?”

“Mhm.”

“Apollo, are you sniffing my couch?” Grantaire looks in disbelief. 

“It smells like you,” Enjolras slurs. “I like it.”

Grantaire shakes his head and gently props Enjolras into a sitting position. He places a warm hand on the side of Enjolras’ face and begins dabbing at the cuts with a warm towel. Enjolras focuses on the sharp pain of water and alcohol seeping into his cuts and eventually some of the fog lifts from his thoughts.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras pushes the towel away. “Grantaire, why did you leave?”

“You must’ve hit your head really hard,” Grantaire laughs and tries to continue cleaning the cuts, but Enjolras pushes him away again. 

“Seriously, R.” Enjolras gives him a hard stare. All the previous drowsiness and dizziness seems to have subsided.

Grantaire drops the cloth and sighs. “I went to find you afterwards, but you looked—,” he hesitates, “you looked busy.”

Enjolras stares at him with furrowed brows, clearly confused.

“It looked like you guys were close. Boyfriend?” Grantaire asks quietly, dreading the answer.

Enjolras eyes widen with realization. “Oh Grantaire,” he sighs. He reaches up to cup Grantaire’s face. Time seems to stop as Enjolras leans in and presses a soft kiss on Grantaire’s lips.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire whispers, shocked.

“Grantaire, that was someone from a dance company in California offering the job on the spot. I happily accepted and we hugged. That’s it.” Enjolras explains. He allows Grantaire to process the information before smiling and saying, “besides, he’s not exactly my type.”

“Yeah?” Grantaire smiles nervously.

“Yeah I prefer dark hair, dark eyes, a mouth that doesn’t know when to shut up.” Enjolras leans in, but stops right before his lips can make contact with Grantaire’s again. “I think I like hip hop dancers better too. And painters.”

Grantaire is grinning by the time Enjolras leans in for their second kiss, but it still feels just as perfect as the first.

 

Joly walks in on his two best friends kissing and giggling on the couch and he isn’t sure whether he should feel annoyed or relieved.

“So is someone actually hurt?” he asks, announcing his presence to the oblivious lovebirds.

Grantaire and Enjolras pull away from each other, looking embarrassed, but happy.

“Enjolras hit his head pretty hard. I just wanted to make sure he didn’t have a concussion,” Grantaire quickly explains.

“So, naturally you two think this is the perfect moment to settle four years worth of sexual tension,” Joly jokes. He looks at his friends’ shy smiles and decides that he’s feeling much more relief than annoyance. “Let’s get you checked up and then we can go properly celebrate.”

 

“To the production!” Combeferre shouts above the booming music. Everyone shouts their approval and downs their shots.

“To Grantaire finally getting laid by the love of his life!” Courfeyrac roars. There’s laughter and suggestive gestures thrown at a very embarrassed couple followed by more shots.

“To Enjolras finally kissing someone who’s worth it!” Feuilly cheers. Courfeyrac shouts in indignation, but downs his third shot anyways. More proclamations follow with the promise that no one will be going home sober.

Enjolras rolls his eyes at his progressively drunker group of friends and tugs at Grantaire’s sleeves. “Outside?” he mouths, and Grantaire nods in agreement. 

They stumble into the crisp air, this time with Enjolras properly wrapped up in his favorite red coat. Even though Enjolras wears the coat nearly every day, Grantaire can’t help but marvel at the pure beauty wrapped in the crimson cloth. Enjolras manages to look positively angelic even with the black eye.

“The company wants me to leave for California right after graduation,” Enjolras announces the second they stop and sit at the small bench overlooking the street.  
Grantaire nods slowly, his heart dropping at the thought of losing what he has just gained. “I know you want to go. I won’t hold you back, Apollo.”  
Enjolras shakes his head. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. You were looking for art jobs in California, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Grantaire shrugs.

“The guy loved the posters and flyers. He said he’s never seen an artist understand the art of movement and expression in such a beautiful way before. It won’t pay a lot, but it would be something and then you could use that to get yourself grounded and find other jobs. You could do whatever you wanted. LA is always looking for good hip hop dancers and there’s a great scene for painting. We don’t have to live together immediately if you don’t want to, but I really think it would be nice. And I get if it’s too soon for you, so we could move slowly too and—” Enjolras’ rambling is cut off by a forceful kiss.

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes,” Grantaire breathes between kisses. A thought suddenly crosses Grantaire’s mind and he leans away. “I do have one condition, though.”

“Anything you want,” Enjolras promises, earnestly.

Grantaire can’t help but grin when he says, “you have to bring coffee every morning. I heard the brew in LA is fantastic.”

Enjolras snorts and playfully punches Grantaire in the arm. “I hate you.”

“I love you too, Apollo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took forever! Freshman year of college is rough. Thank you to everyone that commented and left kudos. I love you guys, but not as much as E and R love each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!! You can find me on tumblr at buckyandlokiruinedme. I don't really know that much about dance outside of Youtube and Wikipedia, so please let me know if I get something horribly wrong. Kudos and comments are all much appreciated!
> 
> If anyone wants to check out my sources of inspiration for this AU:  
> -Kyle Hanagami's dancing is kind of how I imagine Grantaire's style: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCGzGbfhdFsjP1yfJUEpSvWg  
> -The modern ballerina idea came from this video [Sergei looks like Grantaire, but I think Enjolras works better in this role]: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c-tW0CkvdDI  
> -And if anyone doesn't know Orestes' story: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orestes


End file.
